Et tu, Sirius? Then fall, Remus
by Parchment Fox
Summary: In which there are tears and conversations in a messy garage, and Remus is alone.


_**Author's notes:**__Not my best work, but I enjoyed writing it. A little insight into Remus' mind. Reviews appreciated! - Fox_

**22nd July, 1980**

Remus stared blankly at the oily black smears on the knees of his best friend's jeans where they stuck out from beneath the car, its sky-blue bonnet glinting slightly as the late afternoon light shone weakly through the dusty glass window. Sirius' torso was completely obscured beneath the car as he worked, mumbling things about springs and grease and Merlin alone knew what else. Some distant part of Remus' brain wondered how dirty it must be down there on the cluttered garage floor, with the discarded laundry and second-hand Muggle car manuals, and how many germs were using it as a breeding-ground. He was relieved to be perched up on the rickety but relatively clean old table, his long legs dangling out of reach of the concrete.

"…should _really_ get a new link for this bit _here_, but they're so bloody expensive for such a small thing, I might see if that Fletcher bloke can get me one, he got Arthur Weasley one of those sucky things once…hoodlers, that's what Arthur said, never heard of them before though…"

Muggle scientists on the radio always talked about germs having cultures. Remus had tried to explain this to Sirius once in a futile effort to encourage hygiene, but Sirius had got the wrong end of the broomstick and thought he meant culture like British or French culture, with stiff upper lips and tea parties, or - what sort of culture did they have in France anyway? Baguettes and _pain au chocolat_ and romantic candlelit dinners on top of the Eiffel Tower_, _he supposed.

"…don't really like Fletcher, dodgy line of trade, but then everyone's a bit dodgy these days, that's the whole point of the Order, so we know who we can…"

The germ culture had very likely skipped candlelit supper were probably fornicating by now, Remus thought, glancing at the Muggle calendar with the pin-up girls in skin-tight PVC shell suits. Sirius was several weeks out of joint, as ever; he still hadn't flipped the calendar over from June to July, and it was nearly August now. Remus was grateful for the Muggle girls' static poses; he hated the crude way the girls on glossy wizard magazines from the top shelf winked at him and fluttered their mascara-coated eyelashes as though they could ever make up for their utter lack of solid masculinity, the rugged roughness that was -

"Oi, Moony, pass me a spanner," called out Sirius from beneath the car. "This bloody thing won't stay in place, I think I'll have to start again."

Not that fornicating micro-organisms would make Sirius any more likely to clean up, Remus considered, as he levitated the nearest spanner along the floor and under the car. Swish and _flick. _He'd probably clap them all on the back if he could and swap tips on god-awful chat up lines and what to talk about to sound cool or subtly mysterious - not that _Sirius _had ever been _subtle._ At least, not to his knowledge…but then, that was the point of subtlety, surely?

"Nope, wrong one, ugh…"

"What is this damn car thing you've bought anyway?" interrupted Remus.

"Ford Anglia," said Sirius proudly, emerging from under the car, standing up and beaming at Remus, clearly thrilled at this apparent invitation to show off. "The 105E deluxe model. Bit of a squish but I'm sure I can find someone who can do something about that. God, isn't it glorious being of age?"

"Mmm," mumbled Remus, his tone non-committal. He picked at a loose thread on his grey jumper; he'd had it since fifth-year, when his mum had insisted that he had to have a new jumper to go with his Prefect badge. He'd protested; he'd argued that he had enough school jumpers and she should buy herself something nice, something new instead of second-hand. Of course, she hadn't listened; she wouldn't pass up an excuse to buy him something that she couldn't really afford. Since she'd died in the middle of sixth year, he'd worn it obsessively- at least twice a week. It wasn't something he usually thought about; he would simply pull it on and smile distantly as the soft, familiar angora slipped down his stubbled jawline in the mornings.

"I mean," continued Sirius, failing to notice his preoccupation, "look at it. Think of the engine! A 997cc overhead-valve straight-four and an oversquare cylinder bore. Obviously that's a little bit lethargic from time to time but that can be sorted out with a few charms…and it's got a backward-slanted rear window that keeps the rain off, and I was thinking about putting an Impervious Charm on the others, you know what it's like when you're in a car and you haven't the foggiest where you're going, literally, because the windows are all steamed up from the condensatory-wosssisname…but yeah, go on, Moony! What do you think of her?"

Remus realised he should say something. "Wow," he supplied, as earnestly as he could manage, and luckily it seemed that Sirius wasn't paying as much attention to him as usual, because he launched off into another speech about the engine before Remus checked him hastily. "What happened to those days when you were planning to get a motorbike?"

Sirius froze. "A _motorbike_," he said dreamily. "Moony, you have the _best_ ideas. Scourgify this shirt for me, by the way? I'm awful at all those spells, I think it must be a family thing."

He pulled off his grubby yellow Beatles shirt, the oil and grime on which completely obscured the print image of Paul McCartney, not to mention endowing Ringo Starr with oversized knees. Remus glanced away hastily, staring at the Muggle calendar as he flicked his wand at the proffered shirt and muttered the spell. Sirius' bare, broad chest and shoulders with their faint glaze of perspiration didn't matter to him - no - not at all, he told himself forcefully.

"Thanks…I haven't got the money for a motorbike, though," lamented Sirius, pulling the obscenely yellow Beatles shirt back on. "I could ask my uncle…but dear old Mum didn't take too kindly to him helping me out last time and since he's paying the rent or whatever it is on the house I don't think he'd take it too well if I asked him to risk getting another cursed package by owl..."

"You could get a job," pointed out Remus, for lack of anything better to say, but he felt hypocritical as he said it. It wasn't as though he could tie down a job for more than a fortnight himself. "Or get a smaller house. You practically live in this garage as it is, it's not like you need three spare bedrooms…"

Sirius made a face that Remus knew all too well; it was the sort of face his friend used to pull when they were set Defence essays for homework. "A job doing what?"

Remus shrugged. "Anything. You're smart enough, aren't you?" He inspected his shoes. They needed polishing. "And you don't mysteriously disappear for a week every month to visit your sick aunt in her little Welsh village with the unpronounceable name…"

"I don't want an ordinary job, though," Sirius argued. "I was going to be a Dark-wizard catcher, you know. Going after Snivelly for a living, how's that, eh? Being in the Order is one thing, but it's all theory and planning for things that never happen when they're meant to. I just want to _do _something. And anyway, it's no fun if Prongs isn't going to be one and Lily won't let him now that little Sirius Potter is on the way…"

"Lily's _never _going to let James name him after you," Remus snorted. "They'll call him Harry and that'll be the end of it."

"Harry Sirius?" ventured Sirius hopefully.

"Harry _James._"

"Harry Sirius James Potter, then," amended his friend, opening a toolbox. "Where's that damn spanner?"

"You could try _Accio_," suggested Remus, almost automatically. "Probably faster."

"Nah, there are tons of spanners in here, they'd all come flying at me and knock me out…I need a specific one, the one with a chip on one end and a bit of dried paint on the other, you know the - no, you don't, it doesn't matter - hey, when was the last time you saw Peter?"

"Yeah…erm, about a month ago, I think. I dunno, I haven't really had time for social calls…" Remus felt a leap of guilt as he said it. He _had _had time, but it was another one of those things he never got around to, like Muggles didn't get around to putting up new shelves and Sirius didn't get around to homework.

_Hadn't _got around to homework, he reminded himself. Hogwarts was over - bone-crushingly, heart-wrenchingly over, and he couldn't go back. It had been two years now, but he still caught himself, sometimes, having forgotten.

"Really? You must see him more than I do, I don't think I've seen him since Christmas at the Potters'…Lily was barely showing then, you should have seen her last week though, she looks like she swallowed a Quaffle…not even a Quaffle, maybe the moon - speaking of which, how long have you got?"

"About a week," said Remus, gloomily. "Well, just under that really…the fifth night from tonight - July twenty-sixth."

"I don't think Prongs will be there, then." Sirius paused in his rummaging to look at Remus with more seriousness than usually showed on his face. "Lily's almost ready to go…he loves you, Moony, but I don't think he's going to let her out of his sight before the baby arrives, and since there's no question of him bringing her…"

"Me and you and Pete, then," said Remus bracingly. "You two can have a catch up, you haven't been at the same full moon for ages. Unless - unless you want to be there for the baby too? I mean…"

Sirius dropped his handful of spanners into the toolbox with an angry clatter.

"You think I'd leave you to deal with it with just Pete?" he demanded. "Moony, I know I missed one or two since Hogwarts, but only when Prongs was going to be there. Pete - well - he tries, but what's a _rat_going to do alone? Honestly Remus, you know I-"

"All right, I was just wondering, I'm sorry," interrupted Remus. He ducked his head. "I dunno, it's not - it's not like the Marauders usually pop out babies…"

"Lily's not a Marauder," said Sirius bluntly.

Remus stared at him.

"Well, she's not!" Sirius looked defensive. "She's a Marauder's girl and that's it. She's Prongsy's girl. It doesn't make her - well - it doesn't make her like you or me."

Remus felt his heart jump a little; felt the beginnings of a guilty smile pull at his mouth and the twinge of muscle in his cheeks as he tried to hide it.

"You thought she was replacing you." Sirius was looking at him intensely. "In seventh year. I could tell."

"Mmm?" Remus looked away from him, at the Muggle calendar, at the too-blonde girls with their too-round cleavage and plastic smiles. He envied them really; never moving, never changing, while the rest of the world tore itself up with the war and more and more Muggle-borns died - needlessly, pointlessly, so that some lunatic wizard could get his kicks.

"Pete thought he was being replaced too," Sirius carried on relentlessly. "So did I, for a bit…"

It wasn't just the Muggles and Muggle-borns, these days. It was anyone who didn't fit in with the Slytherin ideal. Oh, a few Ravenclaws were supposed to have made it into Voldemort's inner circle, but they would be disposed of eventually, when the man stepped up his next level of 'blood purification'…

"Pete always thinks he's being replaced, though," added Sirius. "There was that time he got insecure because Prongs had a new Sneakoscope and said it _squealed _better than him."

"That thing never _stopped_ squealing," said Remus feelingly. "Honestly, keeping an untrustworthy-people-detector in _our_ dorm…how stupid can you get?" He was still staring at the calendar, stuck on June. Why did Sirius have to have pin-ups of Muggle girls in his garage anyway?

"Get your perverted eyes off that calendar," said Sirius easily. "And I didn't put it up there, before you ask. It was left behind by the last bloke who lived here."

"Why don't you take it down?" Remus knew it came out a little too fast. "I mean," he started, and then realised he didn't know _what _he meant, and stared at his scarred hands, forcing the word _jealousy_ out of his mind.

Sirius shrugged. "I dunno. I never really think about it. More important things to do in here, to be honest."

"Like breaking the law?"

"Whatever. _Arthur Weasley_does it and he writes the damn things."

"No he doesn't! He prints pamphlets about nose-biting teacups!" snorted Remus.

"Only because he's got a hang-up about them after one bit _his_ nose in fifth year," smirked Sirius. "I was six at the time, but I remember it made the Daily Prophet. It was meant to be propaganda by the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office themselves, actually, but my dear old mum framed the page for entertainment and said that was happened to blood-traitors."

"There are worse things to be bitten by than teacups," muttered Remus. "He should be grateful he doesn't turn into one every full moon."

Sirius grinned good-naturedly. "Look, one day, Arthur will be top of that department, and I bet it'll be because he's got _experience _with the misuse of Muggle bits-and-bobs, and I bet you anything he'll need to know about cars. Major breach of the law, messing with magic and cars is...can't imagine why, no one ever complains about flying carpets…"

Remus narrowed his eyes. This was going somewhere; he could tell. "I suppose, given he's your cousin fifty times removed or whatever, the idea of Arthur experimenting with rules shouldn't surprise me."

There was a beat, then -

"I'm going to sell him the Ford Anglia," said Sirius enthusiastically. "And buy a motorbike instead."

Remus moaned slightly.

"He can put a loophole in the law," continued Sirius, unabashed. "Eventually. When he gets important enough."

"You're selling him the car _now,_" pointed out Remus.

"Ever the Prefect, Moony! I haven't actually _done_ anything magical with it - yet," objected Sirius. "What Arthur Weasley chooses to do with any cars he might or might not buy from me is none of my concern. Anyway, you suggested the motorbike," he added, winking at him and turning back to the car. "You know, I haven't even tested this radio thing…"

Remus knew he should pursue the matter further; he should convince Sirius that it was a bad idea - not that that had ever stopped Sirius doing anything before - and make him keep the damn car exactly as it was…but the other man looked so_ excited_…surely it would be heartless…and with Voldemort tearing families and lives apart, it was really no one's business if _some_ semblance of normality went on somewhere, even if _normality _ meant turning a blind eye while Sirius broke the rules.

"Padfoot," he said suddenly. "When all this is over - when the war is finished - do you think you and I might -" His voice trailed off and he looked away, back at the calendar with the girls in the Muggle photograph; frozen in time, forever - what? Twenty? Twenty-one?

Sirius turned and looked at him for a long moment. "We'll still be here," he said, almost as though the idea that they wouldn't be was somehow ludicrous.

"That's not what I-"

"I _know_," whispered Sirius, and for a moment the beautiful boy that Remus fell in love with years ago was visible beneath the oil and grease on his face and jeans, the irreverent yellow top paling in his mind's eye to a white school shirt and a loose Gryffindor tie. He wanted, more than anything, for Sirius to say _yes, we'll be together, _and to mean it in the way that Remus had begged God to let him mean it.

"I don't want to lose anyone in this war any more than you do," Sirius breathed. "But -" He looked helplessly at the girls on the Muggle calendar, at the curve of their hips and the swell of their breasts, and back at his lost, miserable-looking friend. "Do you understand?"

Remus couldn't speak, but he understood.

* * *

><p><strong>3<strong>**rd**** November, 1981**

The whole world was celebrating, thought Remus bitterly, and he was standing in a messy garage with a cold stone floor, devastatingly alone. He felt lost; disjointed, like a gramophone without a record.

"Fireworks in Kent," he whispered hoarsely. "Stupid - _stupid _-" Why did people like Diggle never _think_? Peter was dead - Peter, the sort of man Remus didn't, hadn't, _wouldn't _get around to seeing. And Sirius, the sort of man Remus _did _get around to seeing, had killed him.

Stupidly, he wished Sirius was dead instead of Peter; _anything _was better than the hollow, gut-wrenching knowledge that it had been _Sirius _who had killed him - and effectively killed James and Lily too - and would have killed Remus if he'd had the opportunity. He had believed that Sirius was the one real constant in his life. A line from Shakespeare sprang to mind.

"Et tu, Brute?" he muttered bitterly. "Then fall, Caesar."

He wandered aimlessly across the garage. Pages with diagrams of motorbike parts and notes on motor enchantments lay scattered around; it reminded him of the annual panic in the Gryffindor common room just before OWLs. It didn't _feel _like a double-crosser's garage; he vaguely thought that there should be bodies in suitcases and patches of stained blood on the floor, not spanners and dirty laundry. But here he was, standing in a mess of unwashed shirts and robes. Sirius must have been so preoccupied with Voldemort in the past week that he hadn't even bothered to use the laundry basket Remus had bought for him in his half-hearted attempt to domesticate the idiot.

Remus stared blankly at the oily black smears on the knees of his best friend's jeans, and he began to cry.


End file.
